


Tout ce qu'il faut

by YawningOverTheTapestries



Category: Chocolat - Joanne Harris, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chance Meetings, Crossover, M/M, Or therabouts, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Vianne's smarter than she looks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YawningOverTheTapestries/pseuds/YawningOverTheTapestries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Occurrences like this simply doesn't happen in Lansquenet. But in a sleepy little blip on the map, nothing goes unnoticed.</p><p>Even if the only people to notice are those who know what to look for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tout ce qu'il faut

**Author's Note:**

> The title translates into 'All it takes'. This plot bunny burst up out of nowhere and demanded to be written.  
> Apologies, therefore, for my haste.
> 
> Neither Sherlock nor Chocolat belong to me, though I did go through the book with a fine-toothed comb to check my accuracy.

“ _Bonjour!_ Two dead bodies washed up on the banks of the Tannes about two miles away, and last night a suspect was spotted here on Place Saint-Jérôme. The police in Agen have been informed, but out of everyone on the square I’ve asked so far, none of them remember any unfamiliar faces or suspicious behaviour over the last twenty-four hours. And all I’m here for is to ask the same question – “

“I’m afraid not. Apologies for not being of any help. I’ll be here all day if you need to ask any more questions.”

 

 

Their exchange unfolds with barely a second spare to breathe. Without batting an eyelid.

That _never_ happens – people Sherlock ordinarily harangs for impromptu snippets of information nearly always show just how caught-unawares they are, through the flickers in their eye contact and any response they can spit out. And that’s the people who have something to say; those who don’t have a clue what he’s asking, or worse – don’t even know who he is – are short fuses. People who hadn’t wanted to be disturbed, or were in a ratty mood anyway, often gave rather unsavoury responses to being cornered and shaken for information as if it’s loose change.

It turns out the inhabitants of pastures and villages in southern France have slightly nicer dispositions than those of Greater London, but still, John’s been feeling a perpetual why-the-hell-did-I-let-my-sociopathic-brilliant-idiot-drag-me-out-here ever since they got off the train at Bordeaux. Not to mention a week of acting the gooseberry next to a fluent French speaker, and having exactly no idea of where he’d be whisked off to next. On top of the concentrated feeling-fast that notoriously arrives when Sherlock’s in full Work Setting, and not only can’t stand being disturbed from it, but is almost thoughtless in his need for John to keep up with him. John has of course grown used to it by now, and these days he finds it easier to detach himself from distractions.

 

But not when they leave him doing a disturbingly long double take at whoever-it-is who can look Sherlock squarely in the eye, never having seen him before, and be perfectly convenient in her response to him. So very satisfying, Sherlock wouldn’t ask for more. If he would, which he doesn’t.

She doesn’t even look like anything spectacular or eye-catching. Mid-thirties; soft dark eyes; motherly yet charming face framed with brown locks shining in the mid-March sun; an openness and intrigue and cleverness John and Sherlock have rarely seen in this part of the world; apron wrapped round her trim waist over her crimson dress. Her gaze is direct as she sweeps it over her two new potential customers, too direct for any ordinary tourist-trade purveyor of gifts and curiosities. It’s like she knows more than she’s letting on, and to find out, you’ll have to stay a little longer.

 

 

 

Vianne’s just short of disappointed her daughter’s still at school; Anouk gets particularly excited when brand new customers come through the doors of La Céleste Praline, even for her, eager to greet the shop’s visitors, introduce herself and show them what’s just been added to the shelves. And even with mere seconds to take her first look at them, they make her stop and present her more honest smile, rather than her usual charming but opaque look that dealt nicely with ordinary tourists. Because these gentlemen are not just fellow travellers, in Lansquenet for a short time just like her, but the story behind them, behind their own well-practiced routine of summarising what they’re here for, their careful measuring of how far the other strays, their glances around, and at one another, and at her, has caught her eye.

 

They make her think _yin and yang_ , straight off: she casts her eyes from tall, rivalling her own height, and rich dark hair and headstrong restlessness; to his companion, shorter, fair haired and with expressive dark eyes, and the slight frazzle of someone asking for directions somewhere they've never been before.

 

The baritone of his voice makes Vianne think of freshly-tempered dark couverture, silky and dark and furtive. He wants to show his impressive direct hold on the situation, or possibly just make a bold statement in his svelte tailoring, collar of his trench coat turned up. Those bright jade eyes see through her in a second, but Vianne’s not alarmed by his purposefulness. She’s faced a lot scarier than him.

Certainly the steely watch of the other, stood at his right and keeping his mouth shut, is something to potentially be wary of; the suppressed emotion, while still retaining integrity and empathy, of a doctor or military man. He takes his time to straighten his jacket, and he carries more well-mannered, friendly graciousness to his attitude.

 

 

After Vianne’s told them all she knows, the tall dark figure lopes off again, back across the square like a shot, leaving his friend at the door with a word of ‘back in a moment’, but that vigilant gaze of his lingers for a short while.

“D’you mind if I wait here a few moments? We’re not going to be sticking around for too long – “

“Not at all. Please, sit down.”

 

Vianne busies herself, while keeping up her welcoming smile.

“You’re with the police, did you say?”

“Sort of – I’m, er, not sure myself exactly why we ended up here. I’m John Watson,”

 

He perches on one of the tall stools at the counter, still looking as dignified as possible despite his short, compact stature. And makes a gesture back out to the window. “He’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Vianne hesitates before thinking of what to say next. She hadn’t heard a hint of a French accent from either of them. And they don’t look like people on holiday, not from their clothes or distinct lack of mutual curiosity for the area. But every second spent in John’s company is convincing her further.

 

 

“My name’s Vianne Rocher. Can I offer you a coffee?”

“Please. Charming place, this. Not something that happens every day in a small village, unexpected possible murder victims washing up on a riverbank.”

Vianne offers an amused expression. “Nothing goes amiss in a place with a population of two hundred. Certainly must be different to what it’s like in London.”

John pulls a bemused face, brow furrowed again. “How did… “

“I just thought… it’s where you’ve come from, am I right? From your accents, at least.”

He surely will berate himself that evening, when he remembers his immediate reaction to Vianne’s comment was _God, if only Sherlock was a bit less blunt with his own deductions._

 

 

“Just milk, please.” John covers up his still maladjusted impulse as best he can, shifting into a comfortable position.

“Of course,” Vianne brings the glass to the countertop; John doesn’t have to believe it if he doesn’t want to, but it’s second nature to her to know how her customers take their drinks. And maybe it sounds like good customer service, but she knows it really isn’t.

 

 

 

The afternoon was slipping away when her two guests appeared, and normally, if any of her regulars would turn up, they would have done so by now. It looks like John’s going to be last customer of the day. Which is fine; Vianne knows how conciliatory she has to be around fellow strangers. The one thing they have in common is that there’s virtually nothing in common between them.

 

John slowly stirs his coffee, staring blankly at the soft washed wall behind the counter. “Are you new in town as well?”

“Why, yes. We arrived in Lansquenet on Shrove Tuesday. Didn’t take long to settle down here. We like it in the country.”

John gives her another curious glance, maybe to question her choice of words, or try offering a response that he can’t quite put into words. The quiet of La Céleste Praline seems to extend past the doors and far out across the square, past the heaped rows of neat houses and red shingle, out into the fields, out beyond wherever John and Sherlock had been before their wanderings took them to Agen, and to Lansquenet. Vianne watches him cast his eyes back outside; she knows it too; the strange things travelling too far do to your identity.

 

 

 

When she knows he’s not looking, she turns to the same direction: Sherlock is making his stately way back up the Rue Principale, straightening his long coat.

“What about yourself and Sherlock… have you come this way before in your travels?” She asks in her most tactful of voices.

“We haven’t, no… I’m pretty sure Sherlock’s been to all kinds of places on his own, it’s just… “

John’s words fail him, for some reason. He looks straight down and clears his throat: can’t or doesn’t want to explain further.

 

“Can’t remember many of the details?” Vianne returns to the counter.

“No, it’s just… there isn’t much to tell. It’s sort of hard to explain.” His clenched facing-down of his emotions is showing again. He looks thoughtful, and longing and slightly melancholic, propping his head up on an elbow on the countertop. She doesn’t want to pry further, and even if she did, it would hardly be her place to ask anything personal.

 

 

 

She offers her genteel, trustworthy smile, hoping that she can find the right words to give him confidence.

“Well, you both are still going, still together, which must be a good thing, surely.”

John reluctantly pins a smile on his face, and not a completely honest one. “I hope so.”

 

Vianne’s realised, that wasn’t what she meant – whatever John thought she said somehow isn’t clear-cut. “Oh, John, it’s okay. I’m sure you’re both going to work things through. Everyone feels like that, at some point in their relationship.”

“What – can I just clarify, I’m not… it’s not… like that. I know we’re fine. And I know it’s never going to go perfectly. But… as you said, we’re still together. Which is good.”

 

He lets the two of them keep eye contact over the counter for another moment, before turning round, just a second before Sherlock steps through the door, timed with impressive precision.

“Last train to Bordeaux leaves in half an hour. I’ll meet you at the bus station, just got one more thing to sort out.”

 

Grace seems to come so naturally to Sherlock, even when he’s been down to Les Marauds; Vianne can tell, from his soaked hands, tide marks reaching up his wrists, even though his sleeves had been rolled up minutes ago, and a few drops of the river are still clinging to the hem of his coat. His curly hair has been mussed into fluffy unkemptness as well; he reminds Vianne a little of her unruly little daughter, after Anouk has had a long day by the river playing with her ragamuffin friends.

 

 

 

 

Once John has finally pulled his eyes away from watching Sherlock head back into the cluster of white terraced buildings, at last he looks to be asserting himself, as he puts the empty glass back on the countertop and shifts off his seat.

“Well, it’s been nice to meet you, and see round your town, but – “

“John, before you leave, I want to say something,”

Vianne paces round, taking something off one of her glass-topped display tables, before crossing the tiled floor alongside him. Her voice is composed, soothing. “I am sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t have.”

 

“No, it’s okay, don’t think about it.”

“John... I mean it. It happens to the best of us. We let the small things be overlooked, when sometimes they are all it takes.”

 _Now she really sounds like someone being deductive, and serious about it. Though still not quite Sherlock Holmes._ “All it takes for what?”

“Oh, anything you can imagine, really. So it is important to know, you can help them if you need to.”

 

 _Okay, Gypsy Rose. I’ll bear that in mind next time Sherlock asks me for a second opinion on something._ John replies with an amused smile, and frowns in curiosity at the small thing in Vianne’s hands. “What’s that?”

Vianne looks him straight in the eye. “His favourite.”

“Really?”

“I’m quite sure.” She tucks it into his hands, a tiny cardboard box, dove-grey in colour, tied with ribbon in an elaborate bow. “On the house.”

Now she does take John by surprise. And she's rewarded with a proper smile from him. “Generous of you, Miss Rocher. Thanks.”

Vianne blushed slightly and smiled contentedly to herself, even after John had left. _I’ve given up trying to persuade the Curé to stop calling me Madame Rocher._

 

 

 

“How did she know?” John thought out loud as he followed Sherlock back across Place Saint-Jérôme towards the bus station.

She probably knew right from when he and Sherlock first stepped into her shop. Not just seen but _observed_ every last detail of them both. And it’s likely she does that to everyone who buys from her, so two new faces in her town would be easy as pie. Sherlock would have been proud. If he’d had the nouce to bother noticing.

He really wouldn’t have, though. Not when the first thing she said was that she wouldn’t be of any help. Besides, John couldn’t convince himself that Vianne was anything like Sherlock. She seemed genuine enough, curious about him and anxious that she’d upset him. But now John was quite sure he’d never know, as they’d be on a train within the hour and back on their travels by sunset. Even now the temperature was starting to drop; Sherlock had buttoned his coat up round himself, and John knew he’d be watching him.

 

“How long do you think she’ll stay in Lansquenet?”

“What?”

“Owner of the chocolate shop. Recent move in, doesn’t really blend into the general atmosphere. I doubt she’ll have many long-term plans for this place.”

“I, er, I don’t know. We didn’t talk about… her.”

John let his eyes wander off into the distance, rolling fields and vineyards cast in golden tones, fading away into the horizon as the sun lowered in the sky. Sherlock bowed his head slightly, looking contemplative, and peaceful at the same time. Normally the only times he looks like that is when he’s least aware of it, submerged deep in his thoughts.

“I know you didn’t.” His voice had lowered to a volume to match.

 

John took out the little box again, noticing the shirt Sherlock was wearing matched the exact shade of violet of the ribbon. Indeed, how _did_ she know? John was fully aware of the infamous Holmes attitude towards coincidence, and certainly Vianne Rocher had convinced him further.

Tucking it back into his pocket before Sherlock noticed, John made a snap-decision to save them. After all, the case had yet to be solved, and if Vianne was right – and by now John was pretty sure she was – they’d be worth saving. No need to rush things now, if all it took was a little more time waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll offer anything you want, as payment for the absurdity of this AU.
> 
> But this warms my heart: John finding hope, in someone impressively perceptive and without a trace of the psychotic.


End file.
